


The One Where Mulder Gets Sick

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Irritated Scully, Mulder with the man flu, Sickfic, Turned Not-so-irritated, its a fact, she loves her mulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: Big case of the man flu finds our favorite G-Man down for the count. Whoever will come to his rescue?





	The One Where Mulder Gets Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! A Beta'd fic! Shout out to my wonderful Tumblr peeps, tyrsenian and peacenik0! Couldn't have done it without you. Much love in this moment.

“Mom? Where did the glass cutting board go?” How many times can this woman rearrange her cupboards and cabinets?

_ “ _ Behind the stock pots, dear,” she calls to you from the den. 

Lazy Sundays after church with your mother bring a warm wholesome feeling to which nothing else can compare. Chopping veggies for the delicious beef roast that is destined to go in the oven already has you salivating. A chilled bottle of Rose and a new novel at your fingertips; today will be a good day. 

“Dana, don’t forget the—“

“I’ve got the garlic crushed already.”

“Of course. Silly me, _ ”  _ she chuckles.

Sipping from your wine and basking in the glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window, you sigh contentedly. Only one thought threatens the serenity; it’s too good to be true. Niggling at the back of your—

“Dana! Your phone is ringing!”

Sure. Sure it is. You should’ve turned the damned thing off. This is what you have been expecting all day. You’re surprised you’ve made it this long. A few quick heavy steps to the hall tree and you’re digging through your purse to locate the offending object and answer. You know  _ exactly  _ who it is . 

“Scully.”

“H-hey, Scu-ully. What’cha up to? _ ” Speak of the devil.  _

There’s an odd  timber to his voice; clattering in the background.

 

“I came to Mom’s for Sunday church,” more noise over the phone. What in the hell is he doing? “We’re getting ready to--Mulder, what’s wrong?”

 

“Wrong? N-n-noth— _ “  _ Tone pinched, his speech finally dissolves into a hacking fit of coughs. Great. He’s not even been out of your sight for seventy-two hours. 

 

“How long?”

 

“Scully. You don’t just _ — _ **_cough_ ** _ — _ ask a guy how—“

 

“ _ I swear t-- _ The cough, Mulder. How long have you had the cough?” Your mother is rushing down the stairs.

 

“Is Fox sick?” Cupping the receiver to keep the interference of Mulder’s coughing to a minimum, there’s no time to brace yourself as your mother turns you to face her. “Well? What’s going on with him?”

 

“Two. Days. Mulder. Two days! You were just fine when I left. When did—“

 

“Dana, what is it?”

 

“I can’t diagnose him over the phone, Mom. I don’t know, I—hold on,” Mulder is sputtering and attempting to tell you to say ‘hello to Mrs. Scully’. “Mulder. Stop talking. Please.”

 

“Don’t be rude. Here. Fox?” She takes the phone from your hand. Honestly. She seizes your cell and hijacks the conversation. Fine. Back to the kitchen. Back to the sunlight and wine. You have a vacation to enjoy. Silence. Tranquility. Some goddamn peace and quiet. Maybe a bath? 

 

_ Jesus.  _ The books. You bought a series of books three fucking weeks ago. For the sole purpose of reading them during this break. 

 

More Rose is in order. You pour a full glass, attempting to stifle the resentment rising in your chest.

 

“Oh, you poor dear! No, no! No, nonsense! She won’t be missing anything. Yes. Just us. Mmhm. A beef roast and some red potatoes. Of course. The tea? Yes, the one from Thanksgiving? No, not Halloween. Hold on just a minute,” your worried mother comes racing into the kitchen and squeezes past you to reach for the cabinet next to the sink. 

 

“Fox? Yes.The black tea you had, it’s Twinning’s Orange Pekoe. Yes. I put honey in it. Alright, I’ll tell her. Oh, she’ll—shh. Hush now, save your voice. Here she is. Quick goodbye. Mmhm. Rest up, Fox.”

 

Thrusting the phone back to your ear, the wine glass is dislodged from its perch on your lips. Eyebrow cocked in frustration, you heed your mother’s silent goading.

 

“Mulder?”

 

_ “ _ H-heh _ - _ **_cough_ ** _ - _ Hey. _ ”  _ Mom clears her throat. Mulder is piling on the pity. It works. Every time. 

Even on you. If that weren’t enough, your mother is fixing you with the infamous guilt-tripping glare.

 

“I’m, uh, I’m coming over. Okay?” You can feel the sigh of relief roll through the phone.

 

“You don— _ “ _

 

“Mulder. I’ll be there. Don’t worry. Do you think you have a fever?” All is still on the other end of the line. You can hear your mother behind you, assembling containers of food and shoving them into used Safeway bags.  _ Sweet Christ.  _

“Thanks, Scully. Ahem. I, uh, I think so. Yeah,” he sounds small, so unlike himself. You pause for a moment, worried. Then you remember how much of a struggle Mulder is. A sick Mulder?  _ Son of a bitch.  _

“Do you have any medicine there?” You’ve perfected walking and talking on the phone. Usually frantically gathering your belongings to go on some fly-by-night goosechase. 

 

“I--you want me to-- **_cough_ ** \--look now?”

 

“Of course not. Why would you need to look for medicine when you’re ill?” The force with which your jaw is clenched can easily be considered dangerous. 

 

Shuffling. Coughing. Whispered curses. Your mother is helping you into your jacket and saddling you with your purse.

 

‘What is he doing,’ she mouths silently. Jerking you around, that’s what. An Oxford graduate doesn’t know that he needs to take a few pills when he has a fever? The question for the ages. There’s a massive thud, a growl, and a fair amount of coughing to supplement the havoc he’s causing.  _ Good Lord. _

 

“Mul--Mulder? Hey! That’s fine. I’ll be there soon. Just try to drink some water and get some rest. Can you manage that?”

 

_ “ _ Sure, Doc. _ ” _

 

“Call me if you need anything else.”

 

_ “ _ S-ss- _ - _ **_cough_ ** _ \--’ _ ounds good. _ ” _

 

With that, the phone is dead and you’re left to ponder what you’re possibly going to need to stock up on for the rest of your vacation. Leave it to Mulder to get sick during paid time off. You nearly killed him on that last case. Even Skinner could tell that you needed some time away. 

 

Yet, the Mulder flu has ruined the prospect of your planned time off. It’s always the same. Every flu season. Every bout of cold and cough necessitates a quick lift to the comfort of your apartment. 

 

_ ‘It’s better here,’  _ he says each time he comondeers your bed. 

 

The Lipton soup pouches with the ‘little noodles’. The Jello that  _ has _ to be lime flavored and  _ has _ to be made from the powder, not pre-packaged. The Vick’s on his ticklish feet. Him hogging the bed. Calling out for more tissues in the middle of the night. The awful racket of televised sports and info-mercials twenty-four hours a day. Relinquishing your favorite sherpa throw blanket that he claims as his own.All for this man that has become your life. Nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Honestly, you could count on one hand the number of days each month you go all day without speaking to or seeing him. 

 

When you do get those blessed breaks, he continues to occupy your subconscious. Constantly wondering if he’s eating, sleeping, warm and safe. A daily struggle; it’s difficult to admit, to him or yourself, that you welcome warmly. That being said, you seriously need a break. Need him to be self-sufficient for four days. Hell, maybe even three.

 

Vacation or no, the ‘rest and relaxation’ you had planned has just been invaded by your partner. Hopefully, it will pass without incident. Yet again, it is Mulder. The likelihood of anything simple is slim-to-none.

 

“Dana, here. I’ve packed you some things to take for Fox.” Oh, mother. He gets better treatment than Bill does most of the time. The realization brings a bit of light to your plummeting mood, painting a smirk across your lips. 

 

“I’ve got the Jello, some honey for the tea, the tea itself, the Lipton noodle soup, and you’ll have to let me run for the Vick’s and Motrin upstairs.” The Safeway bags find themselves in your grasp as you’re being nudged toward the doorway.

 

“Mom, no. I already have all of this at home.”

 

“Just take it all, honey. No telling how long he’s going to be needing everything. And now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve got a few more things I’d like to get for the two of you. Are you sure you’re alright to drive?” Her mothering gaze is accompanied by a quick brush of your cheek and the tucking of your hair behind your ear.  

 

“I’ll be fine.” She sighs at the roll of your eyes. Grasping your arm and pulling you in for a quick kiss on the temple, she starts to hurry you outside.

 

“Get the bags to the car and I’ll bring out a few more.”

 

“Thanks, Mom.” 

 

“Of course, anytime.” You shake your head in disbelief as she rushes back to the kitchen, you assume, to raid her freezer. 

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

The drive back from Annapolis is nearly halfway over when your cell chirps in your pocket. 

 

“Scully.”

 

“Hi. _ ”  _

 

“Mulder, what is it?”

 

“Nothin’. Jus-- **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ wanting to...I don’t know. _ ”  _ He sounds far away.

 

“Wanting what? I’m about thirty minutes away. You can make it that much longer. Can’t you?” That tender feeling you get when he’s near launches an attack on your bitterness. The melancholy that colors his voice tugs at your heartstrings. 

 

_ “ _ Just wanted you t _ \-- _ **_cough cough_ ** _ \-- _ talk t-to me. _ ” _

 

“Okay. What about?”

 

_ “ _ An-nything. Don’ care _.”  _ He once revealed in a drunken ‘misdial’ that one of his favorite things was to listen to you speak. It was both flattering and unsettling; only later did you realize that you felt the same way about him. 

“I’ve got bags and bags of food from Mom. She threw her fresh clover honey in too. Someone must be her new favorite, huh?”

 

_ “ _ Nah _.” _

 

“Mulder. She cleared her pantry of Jello. Bill is going to murder you in your sleep.” This earns you a sleepy chuckle, marred by a few barking coughs.

 

“Mulder, if at all possible, you sound worse. How bad does your chest hurt?” Images of you caressing his forehead and kissing the crown of his head infiltrates your clinical line of thought. It frustrates the hell out of you. 

 

_ “ _ Not that bad. _ ” _

 

“You are a terrible liar.”

 

_ “ _ Am not _.  _ **_Cough._ ** Where are you? _ ” _

 

“Getting ready to merge onto 295 to get to Alexandria. Close. Rest your voice now.”

 

The closer you get the longer it feels like you’ll have to wait to see him for yourself. To know that he is alright. Safe and cared for. That unsteady feeling of ill-defined emotions bubbles just beneath the surface.

 

“Scully?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“We _ \-- _ **_cough cough_ ** _ \-- _ going to Georgetown? _ ”  _ Ah. There it is. 

 

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

 

_ “ _ Mm. S’good. _ ”  _ He’s fading by the minute. It’s possible you can talk him to sleep.

“Okay. No more questions. Just rest. I’ll get you settled and give you your first, of many, doses of medicine. Then—“

 

“Sofa?”

 

“No, Mulder. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the pullout.” Who are you kidding? You’re not even sure why you make it up anymore; the both of you usually end up in the bed by the middle of the first night anyway. 

 

**_Cough._ ** “I don’t want to impose _ \--” _

 

_ “ _ Mulder. Stop talking and  _ please just rest.”  _ Jesus, this man and his selective hearing. “You’re never imposing. I just wasn’t expecting company this weekend,” All you can picture is his hair sticking straight out from under a blanket pulled over his head. “Especially one that requires such specific dietary needs.”

 

Your ‘Mulder senses’ tingle, knowing exactly the information he wants next.

 

“And, before you dare speak again: Yes, I’ve got the Lipton soup with the ‘little noodles’.”

There’s the smack of a blown kiss over the line. Laughter bubbles up from your belly before you can catch it. 

 

“Thank you for that. You should do your best to get some sleep before I get there,” Highly doubtful, but you try. “How about we test my memory of the periodic table?” 

 

_ “Mm. No. I c’n sleep”.  _ **_Cough_ ** _. _

 

“That’s good. Things could’ve been a bit dicey toward the end of the metalloids. Chemistry was quite a while ago.” A small weight is lifted from your chest when he manages a chuckle without a cough. “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

 

_ “ _ Mm _ \-- _ **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ c-cou _ \-- _ **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ coun-t-ting th’minutes. _ ” _

 

“Okay. Bye, Mulder.”

 

_ “ _ Bye _.  _ **_Cough. Cough_ ** _ ”  _ By the third hacking, he’s hung up. His goodbye echoes in your mind, and your foot presses just a little harder on the accelerator. 

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

“Mulder?” His apartment is dark and stale. It’s also freezing. 

 

Nothing. No reply. Good, it’s possible he’s sleeping. Used tissues create a shroud around him. Piles of sunflower seed shells add to the gathering of--upon further inspection--seriously outdated cough suppressant. This comes as no surprise. He hasn’t stocked his own medicine cabinet for years.     

 

Sweeping it all into the small waste basket, you approach the head of the couch. Your unruly charge is shivering under his Navajo blanket, bare feet dangling out from underneath its protection.

 

You brush the soft hair from his forehead. It’s unbelievably warm to the touch. No sweat. Flushed face. Dry dark lips. Shallow breath. Not good. If there’s one thing he can do textbook, it’s this. You bend closer to him, carding your fingers through his hair.

 

“Mulder?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Come on, Mulder. It’s me.”

 

“‘Cully? M’tired.  **_Cough. Cough._ ** ”

 

You can complete your diagnosis; checking off confusion and signs of muscle aches and weakness as he grimaces and struggles to turn his head.

 

He’s heartbreakingly adorable, yet immensely difficult at the same time. The perfect paradox. Better than Einstein. Nothing with him is ever easy. Why would you ever think it would be? Taking care of him is a full time job; as you continue to brush back through his hair, you wonder how it became yours. And when. Part of you realizes that there’s no one else to do it. 

 

“Yes. Time to wake up now. I’m taking you home with me.” Oh, that doesn’t sound at all inappropriate. Or is it? He’s been in your bed at least once every flu season since ninety-five. As time passes, boundaries are set further back. Blurring the lines you drew years ago. You tap gently on his cheek with the back of your hand.

 

Rolling hazel eyes strain to focus on your face hovering above him, and he finds you with a clumsy hand and sleepy smile. Then he resumes his wheezing and coughing, sitting up gingerly. 

 

“Mulder, why is it so cold in here? Do you not have any heat?”

 

“Heat-- **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ s’broken.” Good God. The stubborn ass. You took the vacation and ‘abandoned’ him, suggesting that he do the same. He was pissed. And now he’s sick. 

 

“What? Were you just going to sit here and freeze? How long?” 

 

“Th--the-- **_cough cough_ ** _ \-- _ re you go with that--”

 

“Damnit, make one more joke right now. I dare you.”

 

“Hm. Scully, you know I love it when you talk d-- **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ dir--ty to me.  **_Cough._ ** ” He shrugs, leaving his challenge to hang in the air. Your third eye roll in as many minutes and a hand back over his forehead. Piping hot.  _ Yes. You’ve established the fever, Dana. Stop touching him and do something! _

 

“Hush. No more speaking. You’ve definitely got a fever, you’re coughing up a lung, and you have no heat. Do you have any id—Mulder, what in the hell?” He has grasped your hand, pulling it to his chest. You sigh deeply when his head presses into your space. Leaning against your abdomen. This man. You swear.

 

“Warm, Sc-- **_cough_ ** _ \-- _ cully. So warm.” He’s attempting to burrow inside your coat.

 

You soothe him, scratching gently at the nape of his neck. His behavior reminiscent of Queequeg’s need for affection and contact. What are you going to do with him?

 

“Yes, you are warm. Too warm.” He inhales to make a snarky response, and your concerned gaze hardens into a glare. “Say anything and I’m leaving you here.” His hold tightens on you. 

 

“I swear your immune system does this to spite me. Every. Time. Mulder, what am I going to do with you?”

 

“Mm. Take me home and put me to bed,” that cheesy line is followed with a snort and a cheeky grin. You look down at his presentation of a pathetic pout and cannot hide the exasperated smile that tugs at your lips. “Sorry.  **_Cough._ ** M’done.”

 

“I should think so. That was the second joke. The third is going to cost you.” He hums, nuzzling ever further into your belly. Oh, brother.

 

Time to get things organized. Well, ‘organized’ enough to find a few essentials for an overnight bag. For nearly seven years you’ve been spot cleaning this apartment. You’d think it would’ve helped by now. The empty beer bottles left from movie night two weeks ago still decorate the corner of the coffee table.

He squeezes you, moving to stand, his hands linger over your hips a bit longer than necessary. He presses his head toward your fingernails lightly scratching his scalp and points in the general direction of the coat closet. 

 

He rises with your support and moves with you to the bedroom. On the way past the closet, you crouch to reach for one of the many discarded gym bags and duffles.

“How do you ever find anything in here?” Without waiting for a reply, you move toward him to investigate further . 

 

You assume--a perilous act in a bachelor’s apartment--that the clothes piled on the edge of the bed are clean. Possibly. He sniffs them and gives them the green light. Clean enough. You’ve got more than enough of his clothes that are  _ actually  _ clean. Extra socks wouldn’t hurt though. He holds up a pair of ratty sweats. 

 

“No, never mind those, just find some socks and your toiletries. I’ve got everything else.” He throws you an incredulous look, but doesn’t question you. You concentrate on picking a duffle bag and decide not to explore the implications of your statement. Tossing some socks in your direction, he coughs a few times.  

 

Toothbrush, mouthwash, razors, and a bar of his preferred soap haphazardly wrapped in a plastic bag. It's not up to your standards, but for the moment it’s just right. Reaching for the bag he leans to rest against the wall, casting a pained frown your direction. If you weren’t so irritated, it just might have had the desired effect.

 

Crossed arms and an arched eyebrow alert him that the message has been received.  

Returned to the living room with bag in hand, he nearly flops onto the couch. Slowly, and with great difficulty, he puts on his shoes and socks. The ‘man flu’ is in full swing. It’s certain he has a fever. And, yes, he is indeed sick. Yet the dramatics greatly outweigh the circumstances. You’d think he had been diagnosed with Hantavirus.

“You all set, G-Man?” He nods, lungs sounding tighter with every cough. Deep rattling of phlegm in his chest sets you on edge. “Don’t forget your scarf.” 

 

Continuing to instruct him to bundle up, you help him to stand and hand him his bag. Planning to deep clean and disinfect after you inevitably get sick too, you cast a final glance around his apartment. All of his lights are off and his fish fed-- hopefully their heater keeps the water warm enough.

 

“You need to tuck your scarf—here. Stop. Let me.” Resting his duffle near the door, Mulder stops and waits for you to fix his scarf. His sleepy eyes struggle to follow your fingers as you adjust the incredibly soft material around his scratchy throat.

 

“Keep it secure around the neck and protect your mouth _. For the both of us _ .” He hums and his eyes crinkle in that wonderful way they do when he truly smiles. It fills your chest with warmth and something heavier. 

 

He sways in the hallway, struggling to lock the door. You reach up to feel his forehead one more time before the elevator opens. He groans and slips his eyes closed, leaning into your touch. 

 

“We’ll have you back to sleep soon.” The fluff of his scarf tickles your fingertips as they slide down his jaw. The exit to the parking lot is uneventful; thankfully, isn’t swamped with tenants and you’re able to make it to your vehicle fairly easily.

 

With the heat on high, you make your trip to Georgetown. He is starting to slip from dosing to near comatose. 

 

You need to keep him talking. There’s no way you’ll be getting him in the building if he falls asleep. True to Mulder tradition, you consider running through the procedure of getting everything inside once you reach the destination. According to him, it organizing a plan stream-lines investigations, airport departures,  hotel check-ins, dining out, grocery trips, and all other carpool-related traveling.

 

“We’re going to get you in the shower first. That will help. I’ll get the food put away and--,” It's no use. He’s passed out. You let him sleep, praying that he’ll be awake enough to make it into the building when you arrive.

 

Twenty minutes passes and, as expected, he is still fast asleep. 

 

“Mulder, we’re here. No, no. C’mon. Wake up.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Please? Mulder, don’t make this difficult.”

 

Engine off, he clumsily unbuckles his seatbelt and grunts. Coughing into the scarf as instructed, thank God, he offers to carry a part of the massive load of food inside. Following your lead, he struggles the entire way.

 

“Clothes in the hamper. Take a warm shower. Extra towels are where they usually are. Your clothes are on the right side of my top dresser drawer.”

 

“M’kay.”

 

He obeys partially, stringing articles of clothing in a trail from the door to the bathroom. This is getting to be ridiculous. You’re not his mother. You’re not--what  _ are  _ you exactly?

The spray of the shower can be heard and you kick off your shoes, letting your mind rest for a minute or two. All of this food has to be put away. You contemplate leaving it to thaw and changing into your pajamas.

 

It’s only three in the afternoon and you’re already bone tired. Gathering up Mulder’s mess--physically, for once, you realize with a dry laugh--you toss it in the spare hamper in the guest bedroom. Shower still going steady, you figure you’ve enough time to change in peace. 

 

As you’re removing your skirt and blouse, the bathroom door opens and Mulder walks straight into the bedroom. Hair wet. Just as always. Except right now he looks like hell and he’s shivering uncontrollably. He eyes you, seeming to have no qualms seeing you in your underwear. It irritates you and lights a pleasant blush over your chest all at once.

 

“You need to dry your hair.”

 

“Wh—“

 

“Mulder. No wet head. You’re shaking.” He scowls; mumbling back into the steam.

 

“Hairdryer is in the closet. Third shelf.”

 

“ _ Yeah, I know.”  _ Coughing ensues just before the whine of the dryer starts.

 

Soft flannel donned, you push the door open to fish around the medicine cabinet to the left of Mulder. You duck under his arm as if it were second nature, the Motrin and Vick’s in hand.

 

He stops the dryer and turns away from you as he coughs into the crook of his arm. Then he taps you on the shoulder, only to gift you with a displeased grunt and point to his head.

 

“This is what happens when I blow dry it.” His voice is a rough whisper. He  _ really  _ needs to stop talking, but it’s still worth a giggle or four. Sticking up in all directions, his wild mane seems to add three inches to his height.

 

“Alright. Clothes, medicine, water, then bed. Before that flock of seagulls flies away,” you add with a smirk. Armed with medicine and a small cup of water, you step out of the bathroom to place it on the bedside table.  

 

“Good one, Scully.  _ Very _ funny.”

 

“All these years with you has gifted me with a bit of humor.”

 

“Nah.  **_Cough_ ** _.  _ You’ve always been— **_cough cough_ ** _ — _ funny to me.” That charming smile isn’t at all affected by the fever and congestion.

 

“Glad to hear it. Clothes.” Steering him back to the bedroom, you grab another towel to rub some warmth into Mulder’s back and arms. You leave him to pick through the top drawer himself as you filla glass with water at the sink. 

 

“Boxers even? Wow.  **_Cough_ ** _.  _ Scully, you’ve— **_cough_ ** _ — _ outdone yourself.  **_Cough_ ** _.  _ **_Cough_ ** _.  _ **_Cough_ ** _. _ Wait.” You hear a rap on the open bathroom door. “My Knicks shirt? My  _ favorite-- _ **_cough_ ** _ \--  _ Knicks shirt?” He pauses. “Thief.” 

 

“Mulder. You have stayed the night here how many times now?” He huffs and meets your eyes in the mirror. 

 

“Sure,” he walks back into the bedroom sounding bewildered, “Here’s my Knicks shirt.  **_Cough. Cough._ ** Living in bliss. Possibly getting to first base.  **_Cough._ ** Clean. Folded. Hanging out in Dana Katherine Scully’s underwear drawer.  **_Cough._ ** Having the time of its life.” You walk into the room and witness him holding it as if it were the Shroud of Turin. 

 

“My hero,” he whispers into the fabric.

 

“Alright, enough. Just get dressed. I’ve laid out the medicine. Take it, get under the covers, use both of the pillows to prop yourself up.” The ripple of his abdominal muscles catches your eyes before you can make it out of the room. Finding something else to focus on besides those abs is paramount. 

 

You reach the bags on the kitchen table just as you hear:

 

“Scully? **_Cough. Cough_** _._ Where’y goin’? _”_

 

So, it begins.

“To put some of this food away. What is it?” Walking through the door to the bedroom, you see him bundled up under the comforter.

 

“Where’s the blanket?”

 

Elbow deep in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, you grab the fluffy blanket and toss it at him. With a happy hum, he wraps it around his head and shoulders. Another coughing fit. The crackle in his lungs getting worse with every bought.

“That’s  _ my  _ blanket, remember? I had better not find it trying to leave in your bag again. Sleep. I’m going to—“

 

“Stay?”

 

“I’ve got things—,“ he looks so dejected. “Alright.” While you round the edge of the bed, he follows your every movement; burrowing further into his cocoon when you settle onto the bed.

 

“ **_Cough._ ** Sleep comes easier when you’re-- **_cough cough_ ** \--here,” snuggled down, he sighs contentedly. A few more coughs and his eyes start to drift closed. It tugs at your heart strings.

“Mulder, what are we going to do?” He doesn’t hear your whisper. Or he chooses to ignore it. Either way, the inquiry seems to be more to yourself than to him.

 

Scooting closer, you run the backs of your fingers over his forehead and cheeks. Lulling him. Comforting him. Shushing and whispering nonsense. Anything to quiet the noise in his mind.

 

You think about closing your eyes, just for a bit, and then it happens. You follow Mulder, as you always do, into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback welcome! Thanks!


End file.
